Worth a Thousand
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Collection of oneshots inspired by fanart. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. BrooklynBrotp. "His first name is James."
1. Best Friend

**Author's Note: This is a little fanfiction project that just kind of happened without me actually trying, but by now I have enough of these that I have to admit this is bigger than just idle scribbling. This will be a collection of oneshots that are based on fanart. There are some really cool pieces of art out there for the Captain America fandom, and some of them just reach out their little artistic hands and grab my heart and refuse to give it back until I've put it down in words. Some pictures are just, "Oh, cool picture!" But these ones made me want to explore the story before, after, behind, and around every squiggle.**

 **To keep some sort of theme to these disjointed oneshots, every chapter will be about Steve and/or Bucky, and they all take place in an AU-ish setting where Bucky has become an Avenger. You can see it as a possible (if unlikely from where we currently stand) future after Civil War, or an AU of what would have happened if Bucky had sought Steve out during those two years he was trying to find him. By no means will the chapters be in chronological order, because I'm writing them as the inspiration strikes. This first one would be pretty early on, though.**

 **Unfortunately, most of the artwork that's inspired me is proving rather difficult to track back to its original artist. If it starts sounding familiar and you think you know who the original artist is, please PM me so I can give credit where credit is due! This one was inspired by a little comic that apparently came from katinca dot tumblr dot com, who moved her fanart somewhere else and I can't find it T_T**

 **Feel free to link me to fanart you'd like to see turned into a story! No guarantees that I _will_ write it, though; it has to tickle my fancy enough to give me an idea to work with. I'll certainly give every piece you send me a serious consideration, though.**

Every morning after Bucky showed up on his doorstep, Steve greeted him, not with a simple "good morning," but with a hug and a murmur of, "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes and you're my best friend." He would always make sure to approach him from the front, or to shuffle his feet on the floor and yawn loudly so Bucky would know he was coming. But every morning was the same.

At first, Bucky seemed a little bemused, but he always let Steve hug him anyway. After a while, he seemed to expect this greeting every morning. He would turn to face Steve when he approached, or free up his hands, or at least turn his head slightly when he heard Steve coming, like an animal turning its ears to a new sound. Sometimes, when Steve embraced him from the front, Bucky's hands would clumsily find their way to Steve's back, trying to remember how this strange action worked.

Eventually, he started to respond.

* * *

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes and you're my best friend."

Bucky made a sound that could almost be a laugh. "I know my name now, Steve."

Steve, who stood behind him with his arms draped loosely over Bucky's shoulders, smiled against Bucky's neck where he could feel it. "Good."

* * *

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes and you're my best friend."

Bucky, trapped against his chest, didn't try to move. "I know."

* * *

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes and you're my best friend."

Steve was hugging him from behind again, but Bucky raised his hand and touched the arm that crossed his chest. He tilted his head to the side, so that it nudged Steve's just slightly.

"Thank you," he whispered.

* * *

One day when Steve woke first, he decided to take a shower before breakfast so he could eat with Bucky. When he emerged from the bathroom, towel still over his head as he rubbed his hair dry, two arms suddenly wrapped around him, one of them cold against his bare back.

A low voice said through the towel and into his ear, "Your name is Steven Grant Rogers and you're my best friend."

They looked ridiculous—Bucky standing on tiptoe, the towel still draped over Steve's head—but they stood there for a long time.


	2. In His Eyes

**Author's Note: This one is based on an absolutely beautiful pencil drawing found on marisdrawings dot tumblr dot com, which I like to describe as "Steve gazing into Bucky's eyes like he's the whole world". I don't know if I've ever found a picture that has so quickly and immediately captured my heart. Right away, I had to tilt my head the same angle as Steve's so I could gaze into his perfectly drawn eyes *3***

When he was asleep, Steve looked like a kid again—all worry smoothed away, turning this invincible mountain of muscle into something soft and vulnerable. Bucky leaned over Steve, torn between wanting to watch him sleep so peacefully and needing to wake him up. In the end, he compromised by whispering as quietly as he could, "Steve?"

At first, it looked like Steve was fast asleep, and Bucky was about to give up. It could wait till morning, really. He'd be up all night thinking about it, but he could just talk to him later...

"Bucky? 'Zat you?"

Turning back to Steve's bed, Bucky tried to figure out what to say. His heart was pounding and a lump was lodged in his throat, making it hard to focus. Steve rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, blinked up at him, and sat up as soon as he saw the look on Bucky's face. "Here," he said, scooting over and pulling back the covers.

Bucky obediently sat down next to him and tucked his legs under the covers. Steve's warmth enveloped him as he gently pushed Bucky down onto the pillow and pulled the blanket up over their shoulders. They had done this far too many times; sometimes Bucky wondered why they didn't just sleep in a double bed to start with. It wasn't like the gossip about them could get much ruder than it already was.

Steve settled down on the other end of the pillow, his face mere inches from Bucky's. "Nightmare?"

Bucky shook his head.

"Flashback?"

He shook his head again.

Steve thought for a moment, then gave him a half-smile. "Random panic attack for no apparent reason at all?"

Bucky shook his head, though he felt a rush of gratitude for Steve making it sound so _normal._ With all the legitimate reasons he had for freaking out, it was downright _embarrassing_ when he freaked out with no provocation at all. Steve had dealt with it all before, but for once, this was something different. "I...couldn't sleep," Bucky said slowly, fumbling through the words. "So I was just thinking...and I figured it out."

"Figured what out?" Steve gently prompted when Bucky fell silent.

Bucky hesitantly lifted his metal hand and laid it on Steve's cheek. Steve didn't flinch at the cold touch, just waited patiently. "Why you don't leave me," Bucky finally replied. "No matter how hard it is, how many setbacks...every time I make things harder for you, because of what I've been through, or...or when I just want to give up...you never do. I finally figured out why. It's because you love me."

It sounded much stupider out loud than it had in his head. _Of_ course _he loves you, idiot! That's kind of what friendship means. It should have been obvious from the beginning, as soon as he threw down that shield._ He couldn't recapture how monumental that epiphany had seemed, as he lay there in the dark, listening to Steve's steady breathing. It had crashed over him like a tsunami, the sudden understanding why someone as amazing as this would invest so much in a broken husk that would never completely heal.

He waited for pain and pity to bleed into Steve's expression, as he realized that Bucky hadn't known any of this until now. It would hurt him, to know that Bucky had so easily assumed he was doing this out of a sense of obligation, or because it was the right thing to do, and not because he cared about Bucky as a person. But after the moment or two it took for Steve to process his words, all the concern smoothed out of his face at once. His whole face softened like when he drifted off to sleep, but his eyes were open, fixed on Bucky. A pure, blissful smile brightened his face, and his eyes sparkled in the dim light from the window.

Steve brushed Bucky's hair back from his face and kept his hand there, rubbing his thumb back and forth along Bucky's temple. "You're right, Buck. I do."

It was like basking in the sun, looking into those eyes. In those eyes, he was so far away from the cold and the fear that he could almost believe it had never happened. That they were still just two innocent kids giggling under a sheet tent, oblivious to just how ugly this world was. In those warm blue eyes that had never changed...maybe he was the same too. Maybe he was still that boy with a sharp tongue and a crooked smile. Maybe he was still the dashing young man who ditched even the prettiest girls if they didn't like his best friend. Maybe those eyes saw something that wasn't true, something that wasn't there...but he wanted to believe what those eyes saw.

Steve inched closer and whispered conspiratorially, "Guess what, Bucky? I figured something out too. I figured out that you love me back."

What was happening to his face must have been the same thing that happened to Steve's. He could feel every muscle relaxing into a crooked grin, like golden warmth washing over his skin. It was like remembering how to walk, how to breathe. Like slipping back into his own skin. Was this what Steve had seen all along?

"You're right, Stevie," he murmured, drawing closer to rest his forehead against his best friend's. "I do."


	3. Message

**Author's Note: The beautiful photo manip that inspired this can be found at hopeless-geek dot tumblr dot com. It's based on Devin Mitchell's Veteran Vision Project, which is a series of photo manipulations that contrast veterans' civilian lives with their lives of service. I thought it was the perfect thing to do with these characters, so naturally I had to weigh in with my own thoughts.**

"I'm fine," Steve snapped, shrugging Bucky's hands off and tossing his shield and helmet onto the couch.

"But you're bleeding through," Bucky protested, once more trying to pull back the torn sleeve of Steve's uniform to get to the huge gash under a hastily-applied bandage.

"I said I'm _fine!_ " He yanked his arm away, a movement that had to hurt. Maybe it was the physical pain that broke through first, but his eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I'm fine," he repeated, covering his face with his hands. "I'm fine, and they're not."

He sat down, right where he was, just crumpling in on himself. A collapsible Captain America you could stick in your pocket. Bucky knelt beside him and put an arm around his shoulders, mindful of the bandage.

"They're dead," Steve gasped, clutching his face as if trying to rip it off. "They're gone. Th-They were...screaming...for _help._ And I couldn't..."

Bucky didn't say anything, just gently pried Steve's hands away and draped his arms around Bucky's neck himself. It didn't take long for Steve to respond, gripping him with such strength that Bucky was sure he would have bruises in the morning.

"They were _right there._ I could have saved them. I could have! But I let the terrorists distract me. I...f-failed..."

"Steve, stop it," Bucky whispered, squeezing his shoulder for emphasis. "You did your best. You did everything you could to save them. No one could ask anything more."

"But I'm supposed to be _better_ than this," Steve said, his voice breaking.

"You're not perfect. No one expects you to be."

"Then what use is this power?" Steve exploded, trying to break free. "What's the _point_ of being so strong if I can't prevent a busload of kids from _blowing up?_ "

Bucky held him in place, the servos in his arm whining with the effort. "You stopped them from killing anyone else. They've been avoiding justice for months now, but _you_ put a stop to that. I don't think you could have done that if you weren't so strong. Besides," he added with a heavy sigh, "I couldn't save them either."

Steve pulled back enough to look him in the eye. "Bucky, I would never... You were busy fighting their leader..."

"If you're not going to blame me, you _definitely_ shouldn't blame yourself," Bucky said, wiping Steve's tears away with the edge of his sleeve. "The ones at fault are the ones who put the bomb there in the first place."

Steve sighed shakily. "Either way, they're still dead. All those parents, waiting for their kids to come home..."

He crumpled again, his face scrunching in anguish as he spat, "I hate myself."

"Don't say that!" Bucky said, more sharply than he'd intended.

Steve pulled away, ignoring Bucky. "I can't stand being myself anymore," he said, fresh tears falling from his eyes as he rocked back and forth, hugging himself. "I can't stand being Captain America, who has to _save_ everyone, and if I _don't_ then everyone looks at me wondering what they did _wrong_ to make them not worth a _superhero's_ time!"

Bucky pulled Steve back into his embrace and let him babble on until he wore himself out. Finally, Steve whispered, "I wish I'd never been born."

Bucky felt the words pushing down on his chest like iron weights, and suddenly he understood how Steve had felt every time _he_ had said that. How many times had Bucky spat out those hateful words after struggling through yet another sleepless night, or after he'd thought someone was going to kill him and he ended up inches away from seriously hurting the people he loved most? He had wished he could avoid the years of pain. All he could think about was the pain he'd endured and how he couldn't stand being someone so damaged. He couldn't bear to know that those memories belonged to him.

He heard the same tone in Steve's voice now, and realized for the first time just what Steve must have felt every time Bucky had said the same thing.

" _I_ don't wish you'd never been born," Bucky said quietly. He wasn't good with words—there had been a time when the perfect reply popped into his head like lightning, but seventy years locked away in silence had snatched his quick tongue from him, so he just had to muddle through somehow. "There's a lot of people who would be dead without you. Or worse. Don't say that doesn't have any value."

Steve stilled in Bucky's arms, then let out a shaky sigh and rested his forehead on Bucky's shoulder. "It has value," he said, sounding defeated and exhausted. Not bolstered with hope and confidence like Bucky wanted.

"Then that means _you_ have value."

* * *

Steve and Bucky always got up late the morning after a mission. Steve felt much better this morning than he had last night, though there was still a heaviness in his heart every time he thought about those poor children. Bucky was right, of course—what right did he have to shirk his duties as Captain America, when there were lives to be saved? Even though he had failed those children, even though there had been other failures before them, it was a simple fact that he had saved many more lives. And just because he didn't deserve a second chance, that didn't mean he could just ignore the people who still needed his help. So he wouldn't mope around. He wouldn't do anything stupid. He just needed to work harder next time someone needed his help.

But he couldn't deny how _weary_ he felt. He moved slowly as he shampooed his hair, having to consciously tell his body to move properly. He was sick and tired of people looking at him and seeing Captain America—the hero, the one who would magically protect them from all harm. They always seemed to forget that he was only human. There was only so much he could do.

Steve tilted his head back, and let the water rush over his face and fill his ears with its roar. That was the problem in the end. They didn't seem to understand that he had limitations, so they asked for the impossible. And he felt terrible when he couldn't give them the impossible.

With a sigh, he finally shut the water off and started to towel himself dry. Nothing had changed from last night. He'd just acknowledged that he was tired of the whole thing. It wouldn't change the need to keep going, so he would continue as he always had.

He could see through the translucent shower door that Bucky was still at the sink shaving. They always took turns, one of them showering while the other shaved and then switching. He really needed to thank Bucky for the night before. They had sat there for hours, Bucky patiently listening until Steve had talked himself out. He'd made sure Steve was bandaged, calm, and comfortable in bed before seeing to his own injuries or tending to his own aches and exhaustion.

But it wasn't until he stepped out of the shower that he realized Bucky was the best friend anyone could hope to have.

Bucky sat perched on the counter, pulling on his shoes. Steve glanced up at him, then his eyes slid across to a message scrawled in the fogged-up mirror: _I love you Stevie._

They didn't look at each other, just continued getting dressed like normal. But Steve's hands trembled as he pulled on his shirt. With just four words, Bucky had somehow made everything all right. When he looked at Steve, he didn't see Captain America. He didn't see an invincible hero who was supposed to save everyone. He just saw Stevie, the skinny kid from Brooklyn. No...even better. He saw who Steve really was _now._ He saw him, and he didn't think of him as a failure.

Steve hung his towel up, swallowing hard past the enormous lump in his throat. What could he say in the face of such...blind acceptance? _Thank you_ just didn't seem to cut it, somehow.

He turned again and looked at the message, which was starting to run as condensation dripped down the mirror. Bucky still sat on the edge of the counter, just looking at him. As their eyes met, Steve realized that of course, he didn't need to _say_ anything. Bucky already knew.

He crossed the distance and wrapped his arms around Bucky, holding him as tightly as he could. Bucky looped his arms around Steve's waist and settled into the embrace. _Take your time,_ his actions said. _I'm not moving till you're ready._

Water dripped and streaked through the message on the mirror as the steam began to dissipate. The words were gradually obscured, but the message remained the same.


	4. Through the Night

**Author's Note: This one emerged from a beautiful photo manip that can be found at everlastingroad dot tumblr dot com / image / 149567752486 I needed to know the story behind it, needed to know what had happened to bring such a beautiful smile to Bucky's face. It took me much longer than I expected to draw that story out of the characters, but I'm really happy with the result.**

It was too soon, Steve _knew_ it was too soon, but he'd gone anyway. He and Bucky had been reunited such a short time ago, and they were still getting used to having each other back. All Steve wanted to do was try to get some semblance of normalcy back into his life, and enjoy every day with his best friend. But then there were terrorists in Mexico City, and people were dying, and fingers were being pointed and toes stepped on, and everyone knew he was the best man for the job. The _only_ man for the job. The personification of a flag sent as a token of friendship to his neighboring country, sent to put a stop to fear and death and accusations that threatened to unravel every diplomatic endeavor with a single tug.

But he'd had to leave so suddenly, with barely enough time to grab the two other Avengers on the premises at the time, and leave a hastily scribbled note telling Bucky where he'd gone. And he'd been gone for a solid week. He was half afraid he'd return to find that Bucky had given up on him. That he'd left again, as suddenly as he'd appeared, and they would never find each other again.

At first, it seemed his fears were confirmed, because the small apartment the two of them shared was silent and empty. But as he slowly pulled off his helmet and gloves, he spotted a familiar jacket hanging on the back of a chair, and a mug sitting in the sink. Steve relaxed and went to wash off the sweat and grime of the past week.

By the time he emerged from the shower, he could hear Bucky moving around in the main room of the apartment. Grinning, Steve got dressed as quickly as he could and ran a comb hastily through his wet hair. He stepped out of the bathroom and saw Bucky putting groceries away in the fridge. The sight was so homely and _normal_ that he had to stop and watch, leaning comfortably against the back of the couch.

"Welcome home," Bucky said without turning around, a smile evident in his voice as he pushed the milk to the back of the fridge to make room for a bag of plums.

"Sorry I was gone so long."

"Saving the world usually takes longer than you think it will," Bucky said, putting a carton of eggs in the fridge and then straightening up, closing the door and turning to face Steve at last. "Just take me with you next time, okay?"

Steve beamed and pushed off of the couch, closing the distance between them. "You know, they have these little contraptions now called cellphones..."

Without thinking about it, he flung his arms around Bucky and pulled him close in a crushing hug. It was amazing how much he had missed Bucky in just a week, even though he hadn't had a moment to spare for anything other than the mission at hand.

But at his touch, Bucky stiffened and his chest heaved as he struggled to breathe. "Sorry..." he gasped, pushing against Steve's chest. "I'm sorry, I...I can't..."

Steve let go of him as quickly as if he'd been burned. "Oh, right." Sometimes it was so hard to remember that Bucky wasn't quite the same as he used to be. Normal interactions were sometimes the hardest things for him to handle, so Steve couldn't just treat him exactly the way he had since they were kids. Even something as simple as a hug could send Bucky over the edge now, because Hydra had made him forget that physical touch didn't _always_ mean that pain was imminent.

"Sorry," Steve muttered, retreating to the couch and perching on one end, clasping his knees and wishing he could just sink under the cushions. Bucky was leaning against the kitchen table, struggling to get his breathing under control again. At least he was putting Sam's advice into practice, taking deep breaths through his nose and blowing them out slowly through pursed lips.

After a few tense minutes, Bucky calmed himself down again. He'd managed to head it off before the reaction turned into a full-blown panic attack, so at least Steve hadn't screwed up _too_ badly. Still, Steve cursed himself silently, staring blankly at the TV. He should have moved more slowly, or asked first, or maybe just stayed on the other side of the room and not even tried to touch Bucky at all. This was supposed to be a happy reunion, but he'd ruined it all.

Slowly, Bucky crossed the room and sat down at the other end of the couch. He didn't look at Steve, but he haltingly began to speak. "I'm...different now. You're different. We're not the same. And...I don't know if we ever can be, but..." With a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair. "No, that doesn't sound right..."

"Don't worry about the way it sounds," Steve said gently. "Just tell me what you mean."

Bucky drew in a deep breath and let it out in a rush, looking up to meet Steve's eyes. "Don't stop trying. Please." His voice dropped to a hesitant murmur. "I want what we used to have. And even if we can't right now...maybe someday..."

Steve's heart lifted a little. "I'm never giving up on you, Buck. I promise."

* * *

"Bucky! Grab my hand!" He reached out, but as far as he stretched and as hard as Bucky strained, their hands were still a foot apart.

Bucky stared at him, eyes wide with terror. _I don't want to die, don't let me die, save me..._ Then he shifted, trying to inch closer, and the metal bar he clung to collapsed. He plummeted to the ground far below.

"Bucky, _no!_ " He reached, as if that would help anything now. His hand was empty, reaching through the swirling snow...

Suddenly, his hand _wasn't_ empty. Warm fingers laced through his, and a thumb wrapped around the back of his hand. He blinked...and there was Bucky. Bucky was looking _down_ at him, and he wasn't terrified anymore, but that was definitely him. Then he blinked again, and he realized he was lying in bed, and Bucky was standing over him. He'd been dreaming, and must have thrown a hand out as he had in the dream. And Bucky had been there to take his hand.

"Bucky..." He realized his face was drenched with tears. He sat up, trying to dry his eyes without letting go of Bucky, but he didn't have much success when a fresh wave of tears followed the first. "Bucky."

He wanted to throw his arms around his friend and hold him so tightly he would never leave again, but he restrained himself when he remembered what had happened the last time he'd hugged Bucky. Instead, he just clasped Bucky's hand between both of his and pressed it to his forehead as he cried.

Bucky had fallen...but he was alive. He was here. He'd saved him, and they were together again. He would never have to feel that awful empty ache in the pit of his stomach, or wake up smiling only to remember that he had to face another day alone.

He was crying so hard he could barely breathe. He kissed Bucky's knuckles and washed them with his tears, clinging to Bucky's hand with all his might as if he could still keep Bucky from falling at all.

He knew Bucky just wasn't ready for lots of physical affection, and he didn't want to do anything that would hurt him...but right now Steve just wanted someone to hold him. He wanted someone to tuck his head under their chin, and tell him it would be okay, and let their heartbeat soothe him to sleep the way it had when he was so much smaller.

He was thinking so hard about how he wanted to bridge this horrible void between them that at first he didn't realize the hand on the back of his head was real. By the time its cool temperature registered in his mind, it was already pushing his head forward to rest against Bucky's chest. And though his heart beat much too fast against Steve's cheek, Bucky didn't pull back.

Once upon a time, Bucky would have told him it was okay, or given him a bunch of meaningless platitudes, or maybe told him a joke just to get him laughing again. Now, he simply threaded metal fingers through Steve's hair and whispered, "Shhhh..."

It had always been a particular talent of Bucky's to calm Steve down quickly. It had come in handy several times when Steve had an asthma attack. Just like always, Steve now found himself relaxing in Bucky's arms, until slowly his tears subsided.

When Bucky pulled his hand away to get a tissue, Steve realized how exhausted he was. The bed was surprisingly inviting, even after such an awful nightmare. After blowing his nose, he lay back down, but when Bucky stepped back, he impulsively grabbed the metal hand. "Stay...until I fall asleep?" Then he realized how utterly selfish that was, to demand that Bucky sit up all night while he got to sleep. "No, never mind, sorry—I'm fine." He quickly dropped his hand back to his side.

Bucky looked at him for a moment, then pulled a chair over to the side of the bed. He sat down and took Steve's hand in his again. "Go to sleep," he said softly, without a hint of irritation. "I'm right here."

"No—really, Bucky, you don't have to. You're tired, it's late..."

Bucky shrugged. "Couldn't sleep anyway."

Steve's eyes threatened to fill with tears again as he remembered another time they'd had an almost identical conversation. The night after he'd buried his mother, after he'd spent hours convincing Bucky he was totally fine and didn't need to sleep over, Bucky had let himself into the apartment with the spare key and gone to find him curled up in his mother's bed, sobbing into pillows that still smelled like her. When Steve had tried to protest that Bucky shouldn't stay up half the night, Bucky had shrugged and said he couldn't sleep anyway. He'd held Steve the whole night, and cooked a big breakfast the next morning despite copious amounts of yawning.

Steve looked up at Bucky now, knowing that no amount of arguing would sway him when he had that stubborn set to his jaw. "You're lying," he sighed, "but thank you." He pulled their clasped hands up to his heart, and rolled onto his side. "Buck... _thank you._ "

Bucky's thumb stroked across the back of his hand, the motion familiar even though Bucky's hands no longer dwarfed his. Steve's whole body relaxed, and he felt sleep descending upon him again. As his eyes closed, he heard Bucky whisper, "There's nowhere I would rather be."

* * *

When Steve next opened his eyes, he squinted at the clock and saw that it was only 4:38. It was to be expected, unfortunately; it seemed that whenever he woke up in the middle of the night, he could only sleep in furtive snatches after that. He moved to stretch his arms, only to realize there was still a hand clasped around his. "Bucky," he rasped, trying to sound reproachful while still half asleep, "you were supposed to go back to bed after I fell asleep."

Bucky just shrugged. "I wanted to make sure you didn't have another nightmare."

Steve found himself trapped between gratitude and exasperation. He wasn't five; he could handle a nightmare or two. "I'm okay now. Come on, you look exhausted—go to bed."

"I nodded off a couple of times. I've been sleeping most of the time."

Steve frowned. Bucky was obviously lying; even in the dim light of the room, he could see how Bucky's eyelids drooped wearily. "If you don't go back to bed, I'll pick you up by the scruff of the neck and carry you there myself."

Bucky squeezed his hand, as if to remind him that their strength was equally matched. "Go ahead and try."

Steve smiled, but he was too tired to think of another comeback, so he said seriously, "I have an alternative." He slid over to the other side of the bed and pushed the spare pillow in Bucky's direction.

Bucky looked uncertainly at the bed and the tiny amount of space there would be between them. Steve wondered for a moment if it had been such a great idea after all, but then he remembered what Bucky had said before: _Please keep trying._ So Steve pushed aside the disappointment that cringed away from Bucky's reluctant expression. He pulled back the covers and tugged gently on Bucky's hand. "Come on, there's room for both of us. This way, we can both get some sleep, and if I have another nightmare, you'll be right here."

Bucky must have been even more tired than he looked. He took a deep breath, then let go of Steve's hand so he could crawl into bed. He lay stiff as a board on the edge of the mattress, facing away from Steve. Steve lay still so he wouldn't even brush against Bucky, and tried to get back to sleep. But it was hard, especially when his right hand felt so cold without Bucky holding it. Funny, he used to complain about Bucky's cold fingers.

"Steve?" His voice was barely a breath.

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember...that first night...after you saved me from the Hydra base? In the war?"

"Of course." He carefully turned his head to look at Bucky, but all he could see was the silhouette of his shoulder against the window.

"I was...pretty messed up." His voice grew stronger as he continued to speak. "After the torture...and the escape and the march back to base... And then I had to relive it all over again for Colonel Phillips."

"The next day," Steve interjected. "He debriefed us both at the same time, remember? He gave us till the next morning to recuperate."

"He gave _you_ the day off," Bucky said softly. "He called me in to report. You'd gone off to talk to Stark."

Steve thought back to that day. He'd been so busy—taking stolen weapons to Howard, making sure the men he'd rescued had everything they needed, and probably spending a bit too much time being distracted by Peggy—that he hadn't seen Bucky till that night, when he'd found him sitting in the tent he'd been hastily assigned.

"What did the colonel want to know that was so important?"

"He wanted to know what questions they'd asked me. Make sure I hadn't given anything away that would put us all in danger if any of them had escaped."

It was far too long ago to get upset about it now, and he knew Colonel Phillips was only looking out for the safety of his troops, but he couldn't help feeling a little angry that the colonel had insisted on grilling a man who'd barely escaped a torture chamber with his life and then had to march all the way back home.

"I...kind of fell to pieces," Bucky doggedly continued. There was some point he was determined to get to, but Steve wasn't sure what it was. "He kept asking me questions, and it was just like when _they_ were interrogating me, and...something snapped, I guess. I couldn't stop saying my name and number, just like I did during the torture. They taught us to do that if we were caught...so we wouldn't give anything away."

His voice was getting tight and stressed. Steve raised a hand, but thought better of it. "Bucky...you don't have to..."

"He was good about it. Told me to get some rest, come back the next day with you. I guess he knew we were friends and figured you could fill in the blanks."

He fell silent, and Steve wondered again where he was trying to go with this. Was he waiting for Steve to say something? Or was he just reliving a memory that had occurred to him?

"That's why I was so...in such a bad place...that night."

Steve remembered ducking into his tent and finding Bucky sitting on the cot, wrapped up in Steve's blanket and shivering uncontrollably. All he would say was that he was cold. It had been hours before he stopped shivering. "Bucky...I'm so sorry. I had no idea..."

"I know." Bucky's breathing was harsh and uneven; it almost sounded like he was crying. He was trembling; Steve could feel it through the mattress.

"Bucky?"

"I...I'm cold."

Steve stared at Bucky through the darkness. This was what Bucky had been working towards all this time. He was terrified, but still he asked this unvoiced request, because he wanted _it_ more than he wanted to be safe. Tentatively, Steve reached out and placed a hand on Bucky's metal shoulder. When Bucky didn't flinch, Steve slowly slid his hand across Bucky's chest to his other shoulder and pulled him closer. Bucky's fingers dug into his arm, but he didn't try to pull away. He let Steve wrap his other arm around him too, pulling him into a tight embrace against his chest. Bucky was facing the other way, so he couldn't see his expression, but he was still trembling. It was just like that night in the tent. Steve curled his feet around Bucky's frigid toes and rested his forehead against the back of Bucky's neck.

"Am I making it worse?" he asked, breathing in the smell of Bucky's hair.

Bucky sniffled a little, swiping a hand across his eyes. "It's better," he choked. "It's so much better."

Sure enough, the trembling soon subsided. They both slipped off to sleep, encased in each other's warmth. The sun rose, but they were fast asleep, smiles on their faces.


	5. Namesake

**Author's Note: The picture I'm using as an excuse to indulge myself in some headcanon about Steve's child is a beautiful little picture of Steve's right hand, Bucky's left hand, and a baby's hand. I wish I knew the artist, because it's so simplistically beautiful! (Be forewarned: I ship Staron.)**

Bucky dragged his feet as he followed Sam into the hospital room, suddenly reluctant even though this was what they'd been waiting almost 48 hours to see. He closed the door softly and hung back, watching Sam go right up to the bed and lean over Sharon without a care.

It was like watching a scene from a movie. He could practically hear the gentle piano music in the background. Steve perched on the edge of the bed with his arm around Sharon, who was beaming even though she looked exhausted. Sam leaned over the other side, grinning almost as widely as Steve. And everyone's attention was directed at the little bundle of blankets in Sharon's arms.

Sharon passed the baby over to Sam, and Bucky was surprised at how casual he looked—as though he'd done all of this before, many times. The baby fit into his arms as though they were made for nothing else.

"Dere's my wittle neffy-poo!" Sam said, speaking a baby-voice so ridiculous Bucky couldn't suppress a snort of laughter. "Hey little guy! I'm your Uncle Sam— Wait." He looked up, suddenly switching back to his regular voice. "Did you just befriend me so your kid could be the most American baby alive?"

Steve laughed at the fake pout Sam gave him. "Yeah, that was the one thing on my mind when I met you. 'Better keep this guy close, just in case Captain America has a kid someday.'"

Sam was rocking the baby back and forth slightly. "So, you thought of a name yet?"

"My family has a tradition," Steve replied. "The first son's middle name is the father's name. So his middle name is Steven. His first name is James."

Bucky looked up sharply to find everyone smiling at him. He felt...cornered. Like everyone was expecting him to do or say something...but he didn't know what. "Why?" he blurted out before he could think better of it. "Why would you...?"

"Because you're the bravest man I know," Sharon said quietly. "And that's what I want for our son. Courage."

"And because he'll be growing up in a world full of danger and evil," Steve added. "He needs to know that there is some good in this world that nothing can destroy."

 _And giving him my name will remind him of that?_ Bucky felt like he needed to sit down, but the only chair in the room was the one next to Steve, and that would be like sitting right next to the blazing sun.

Suddenly Sam was at his side, holding the baby out to him. "Wanna hold little Jimmy for a while?"

Alarm shot through him. "What— No—"

But it was too late. Sam was already transferring the bundle into his arms, settling the baby's head in the crook of Bucky's right arm.

Panicking, Bucky turned to Steve. "But...what if I drop him? What if I break him?"

Sharon covered her mouth, not quite hiding a smile, as Steve said, "Relax, Buck. You're not going to hurt him."

"How do you know for sure?" Bucky said desperately, holding his arms stiffly and trying not to squeeze too hard. "I'm...I'm _really_ strong, you know! I could snap him in half without even noticing!"

He wished Steve wouldn't look so amused. This was a serious risk! But Steve just said calmly, "You're not going to hurt him. You know how I know that? Because you're trying to protect him. You never hurt anyone you're trying to protect."

Stunned, Bucky didn't know what to say to that, so he looked down at the baby in his arms for the first time. He was so tiny. His whole head could easily fit in Bucky's hand. His skin was all wrinkled and pink, and it was far too early to see any family resemblance to either of his parents. He was almost ugly (though Bucky knew better than to say that part out loud), but there was something...precious about him. Maybe it was just the miniscule size of his features.

Jimmy's eyes peeled open and stared up at the face hovering above him. Bucky drew in a breath. He knew it was impossible, he knew babies this young probably couldn't even recognize the faces of their own parents, but it felt like Jimmy _knew_ who he was. Those blue eyes, the same shade as their father's, pierced right through him—through the layers of fear, pain and guilt—and didn't see the blood-stained murderer he always saw in the mirror.

In that moment it seemed that James Steven Rogers looked at James Buchanan Barnes, and what he saw was good.


End file.
